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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25144717">Headlights</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSongofPatroclus/pseuds/TheSongofPatroclus'>TheSongofPatroclus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2 bros sittin in silence, Angst, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Grief, Healing, Late-Night Drives, M/M, Mourning, Mutual Pining, Post-Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Strangers to Lovers, Talia Hale Feels, WHY IS THIS SO SAD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:40:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25144717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSongofPatroclus/pseuds/TheSongofPatroclus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The door opens, and the rustle of leather fills the silence as Derek Hale slouches into the passenger seat, not even a grumbled hello passing between them. The air is vacant, the quiet so still. They don’t even need to speak in order to greet each other. They don’t need a nod of affirmation or prolonged eye contact or even a messy salute thrown haphazardly. It’s simply this: Stiles waits, Derek gets in the car, and then they drive. </p><p>Perhaps that’s all it’s ever needed to be. </p><p>They drive out of the forest, past Stiles’ house, and across town. Stiles gets gas when the tank is near empty, and forgets to mention the cash that suddenly appears in the center console when he’s back to driving. They don’t turn on any music, or roll the windows down to hear the whir of cars going the opposite direction. They don’t talk. They don’t think. They don’t exist. </p><p>Stiles drives, Derek breathes, and the road takes them everywhere.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Headlights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s been an hour since he turned off the headlights, and Stiles can still feel the gentle light of the stars peering through the windows onto his skin. The rush of the night’s wind and the sound of it through the trees. His fingers tap the steering wheel as he whistles some odd tune, searching the area in front of his car for any potential silhouettes passing by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he’s expecting somebody. Because he’s not. He’s here to catch his breath and maybe get a little high and avoid the deafening silence of his own house and the intruding thoughts and the sadness and fuck off, okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans back, fiddling with the radio despite the car being off. Both of his windows are foggy with the cold, and when he exhales he can see the faintest of clouds until it dissipates and he realizes how far away he is from anyone. How dark it really is to be alone. How the moon only pretends to shine through the branches of a lonely forest. How there’s nothing but shadow, nothing but silence, and no one but him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles is about to twist the keys in the ignition and start his trek back home, but then there’s a figure in his peripheral, the shape of a body to his far right. It’s getting closer and Stiles definitely isn’t smiling to himself or suppressing a laugh because that’d be embarrassing. Humiliating, even, so don’t bring it up. Dick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He unlocks the car door when the figure is still too far away to hear it, hoping they don’t sense his excitement, but then he realizes they likely heard anyway. Stiles exhales faster, forcing himself to calm a little; it’s okay that they know he’s excited, right? I mean, why else would they keep coming? Why else would Stiles keep showing up in the middle of the forest every Friday night? For fun? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. This certainly isn’t fun for either of them. It’s business and that’s it. Stiles thinks of him and this other person as business partners, offering up mutually-beneficial information and stimulating no-conversation that creates the kind of synergy an office needs to work. Efficiency. Goods and services, the whole ordeal. Stiles took econ in high school—he knows what he’s saying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time his business partner (okay, maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>partner </span>
  </em>
  <span>is starting to become a little too intimate a term. Business pal? Business homie? Amigo de business? he doesn’t really care anymore)—by the time his business partner reaches the passenger side door, Stiles has managed to calm his breathing for the most part. He doesn't want his heart beating too fast or for his face to be covered in too much sweat because that sound and those smells are </span>
  <em>
    <span>intoxicating, </span>
  </em>
  <span>apparently. He assumes it’s a bad thing. He surely doesn’t want to get drunk off of someone else’s stench of anxiety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only panic did get you hammered. Stiles would save so much money. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens, and the rustle of leather fills the silence as Derek Hale slouches into the passenger seat, not even a grumbled hello passing between them. The air is vacant, the quiet so still. They don’t even need to speak in order to greet each other. They don’t need a nod of affirmation or prolonged eye contact or even a messy salute thrown haphazardly. It’s simply this: Stiles waits, Derek gets in the car, and then they drive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps that’s all it’s ever needed to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drive out of the forest, past Stiles’ house, and across town. Stiles gets gas when the tank is near empty, and forgets to mention the cash that suddenly appears in the center console when he’s back to driving. They don’t turn on any music, or roll the windows down to hear the whir of cars going the opposite direction. They don’t talk. They don’t think. They don’t exist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles drives, Derek breathes, and the road takes them everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first time Derek finds his way into Stiles’ jeep, it’s a little more awkward. There’s quite an extensive amount of forced conversation, Stiles asking Derek if he likes the radio on, Derek saying he’s okay with it if Stiles is okay with it, and Stiles saying he’s okay with it if Derek is okay with it, and then their passiveness just means the radio stays off. They both realize they like it like that anyway. The quiet has always been their favorite thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek asks him what he’s doing in the forest without his headlights on, forgetting to mention the puffiness of Stiles’ eyes, the scent of still-drying tears lingering on rosemary skin. Stiles doesn’t answer, fumbling a “Well, what’re you doing in the forest without </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>headlights on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was taking a walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I was taking a drive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn’t mention that Derek’s hand is bleeding that first time he gets in the car. He doesn’t comment on the fact that Derek’s voice cracks once—just once— and he doesn’t talk about how the trail he’d parked on leads straight to the old Hale house. He simply starts the car, asks </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where to?</span>
  </em>
  <span> and takes off down the off-road. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drive for half an hour. Derek keeps his gaze focused on the window, the passing trees and midnight passerbys rushing by in a blur. Stiles drives, his fingers tapping the wheel at a slower rate than before, and he isn’t afraid that Derek might smell he’s afraid. Because he isn’t. He isn’t afraid anymore. At least, he isn’t now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek never mentions how Stiles’ heartbeat actually slows down when he gets in the car, but Stiles doesn’t mention how Derek hasn’t scowled or crossed his arms once since they’d left the forest. Neither of them say much. Their own thoughts are too loud to talk over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whenever they do this, they’re simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and neither one of them has to uphold the reputations they’ve created for themselves. Stiles doesn’t have to be high energy and make anyone laugh or crack a joke despite desperately wanting to sometimes. Derek doesn’t have to be strong, or formidable, or a warrior meant to protect those behind him. Stiles isn’t a jester. Derek isn’t a soldier. These nights, they’re what knights become after stripping their armor—just men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second time it happens, Stiles has partially been expecting the first to be some kind of fever dream. It’s exactly a week later at exactly the same hour (no, he didn’t neurotically sit in his living room with his keys in his grip waiting two hours until he could leave. That’s ridiculous. It’s merely coincidence the times match up), and he’s driven to the exact same place. The jeep bounces as it travels off the main road and into the dense woods, tires scratching the dirt with a sound that makes Stiles shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He parks, turns off his headlights, and waits. He wipes a mess of tears on the back of his sleeve that’d accumulated on the fifteen minute journey there, grimacing at the snot now drying on his wrist. His leg twitches and he finds himself staring out the window at the spot he’d seen Derek show up the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there he is. Through the darkness, Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>swears </span>
  </em>
  <span>he sees Derek grin upon seeing the jeep roll up. But then it’s gone, and all there is is a glint in Derek’s eyes that Stiles doesn’t mention because he doesn’t want Derek to mention the glint that’s surely in his own eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he’s quiet. He doesn’t talk about how Derek’s hand is bloody again—it looks like he punched something. But it will heal, so Stiles lets it go. He hasn’t thought to mention how Derek’s hair is flat, or that his beard is scruffier than usual, or that when he stares out the window this time his eyes gloss over and Stiles is sure he isn’t counting the trees or the people or the road signs leading them elsewhere. Derek is just looking. Maybe he’s not even doing that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek doesn’t mention the car freshener Stiles bought that week. Maybe he doesn’t realize it’s for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, it becomes their routine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple months into their shared late-night drives, on what was probably their ninth or tenth time being together, Derek gets into the car and Stiles’ gaze immediately flicks to the man’s knuckles. They reek of metal and even as the lights of the car dim when Derek shuts the door, Stiles can see both hands stained red. Crimson, raw, and still bleeding for a few moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but Derek cuts him off with a wave of a bloody hand. “Start the car, Stiles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Derek.” The younger man twists the keys into the ignition, the weak roar of the jeep filling the silence as he sits back. He doesn’t touch the steering wheel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drive the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek sighs heavily, risking a sideways glance at Stiles’ concerned stare. He knows his eyes are red, mixing with the deep green to form a cluster of ruby and emerald. Cracked gems and shattered jewels. And when the car doesn’t move, doesn’t propel forward with that messy lurch of Stiles’ jeep, Derek huffs. The rustle of leather, the rolling of harrowed eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts to get out of the car, mumbling something like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go without me this time </span>
  </em>
  <span>and those hard words don’t match the pain in his chest. He can hear the lingering questions already paving their way across Stiles’ tongue. He doesn’t want to answer them. Doesn’t want to think about it. This isn’t what they are—can it be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Stiles says, arm reaching across into Derek’s space to grab his forearm. The older man stares at it, wondering why his fight or flight instinct has always been so subdued by the boy Stiles, mouth agape without a single thought coursing through his brain. He doesn’t take his arm back. Doesn’t use it to smack Stiles on the back of his head. Doesn’t yell. He does nothing. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wolf doesn’t speak. He can’t. He’s only ever learned to howl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles releases his grip, but not without the tips of his fingers lingering at that space of skin at the end of the leather sleeves. Comforting, calm. The allowance of space. Derek shuts the car door and the ceiling lights dim a second later. Their gaze melts and freezes at the same time, Derek and Stiles, scowl and smirk, nothing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles resists the urge to whisper a vulnerable </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t go </span>
  </em>
  <span>or a heated </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stay. Please. </span>
  </em>
  <span>After he’s sure his heart has stilled (ignoring the fact Derek must’ve caught onto his fear of the man leaving), he turns in his seat. The car still hums against the night. The trees still loom, and the wind still screams. “What’s with your hand?” he asks, perhaps too aware it’s the last thing Derek wants to be asked right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Derek’s eyebrows don’t furrow, nor do his lips downturn into a silent kind of snarl. He simply stares at the man beside him, opens his mouth to speak, and murmurs so softly it’s like he’s never spoken before. “Punched a wall,” he says, each word like a bullet from a gun he didn’t mean to shoot. “More than once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods, expecting the answer. He looks out of the window and down the path to the Hale house, understanding. He flicks on the ceiling light and rolls up his sleeve, showing Derek the back of his hand. He traces the faint line of a ten year old scar. “I broke my own wrist against the kitchen counter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s all he says. Nothing else. No explanation. Perhaps that’s what’s best about Derek and Stiles and Stiles and Derek; they don’t want the </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>or the </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>or the details they both spend hours every day hiding from everyone else. They want to be understood without the need to share. To be opened instead of opening up. To be heard, even when they aren’t making noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Stiles drives. Takes them to a diner. He parks outside, and they don’t go in. Derek watches a waitress untie a balloon from around the entrance and hand it to a little boy; Stiles flips his phone mindlessly in his hands as he counts the number of times the screen brightens and then shuts off. The little boy leaves with his parents, and Stiles sets his phone under his leg. He starts the car. Drives away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes them back to that spot in the woods. Every time, Stiles wonders if he should keep going and drop Derek off right in front of the house, but he understands how much Derek loves silence. Loves the darkness. Loves how long it takes him to finally reach his bed, by that time so tired he doesn’t have to think about falling asleep. Thoughts are usually the only thing that prevent him from drifting off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek grabs the door handle, hesitating for a moment until throwing it open and stepping outside. The bite of the chill wind grazes over the wounds on his knuckles, a couple of open scars he’s not letting himself heal. He shuts the car door, but keeps a hand on it until Stiles rolls down the window. An eyebrow raised. It’s never taken them this long to part. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t meet each other’s eyes. Derek thinks of fire and Stiles thinks of ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Derek finally says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. He just shows up the following Friday, and that’s perfect enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the way home, Derek lets his hands heal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the silence stops being what they need anymore. There’s only so much brooding Derek can do while staring out the window and there’s only so many songs Stiles can tap the drum-beat too on the steering wheel. They both feel it, one night, when Derek’s scowl is replaced by emptiness, and Stiles’ hands are quiet, unmoving, so still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, everything shatters. The glass. The pain. The silence and the comfort. It breaks because it’s needed to for so long, snapping at the center as if it’s been bending for weeks and weeks. It cracks and splinters and disintegrates into nothing at just the sound of Stiles’ voice, and the sound of Derek’s right after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All it takes is a question. One question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All it takes:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we okay?” Stiles asks. His tone is wary, eerily uncomfortable, as if afraid to speak and ruin what they’ve made for themselves. As if a god so fearful of destroying their own creations. As if a mad scientist terrified of poking their monster in its side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Derek doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t ask Stiles to turn around or stop the car. There’s no sneer and scoff or any semblance of sarcasm dripping from his features. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The werewolf simply looks at Stiles’ profile, contemplates, and replies as honestly as possible. “No. I don’t think we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will we be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek grips his knees until his hands pale. How badly he wants to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, everything will be okay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>To say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles, we’re alright. It’s going to be alright </span>
  </em>
  <span>and to scream at him that they will </span>
  <em>
    <span>heal </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>heal </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>heal </span>
  </em>
  <span>underneath the night sky. But he can’t. He stares at the back of his hands, once and so often stained a darkened red; he glances at the bags beneath Stiles’ eyes and remembers the way his lips used to perk up instead of resting in a frown. He remembers Boyd, and Erica. Laura. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mom. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stiles remembers Allison, the Nogitsune. Life before. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mom. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In this silence, the two men remember everything it is that has hurt them. And yet, Derek still murmurs the phrase. It’s the softest anyone has ever seen him. Perhaps he hasn’t spoken like this since his eyes were still gold. Perhaps it’s a sound that had been reserved for Paige. For Jennifer. For </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kate. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And perhaps he’s lying, but Stiles doesn’t need to know that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so,” he says, so low he wonders if Stiles even heard him. So he repeats it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, the second time sounds like he’s telling the truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s early autumn when it happens. When Stiles begins to realize their time together is more than just a means to fade their scars, more than a parting of rain clouds and a drying of a flooded sea. It’s early autumn when Derek starts to wonder if Stiles means more to him than a driver, a chauffeur, a nightly watchmen of the werewolf punching himself to death. If Stiles means more than he’s ever been. If Derek means more than he wants to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaves cover the jeep’s windshield as Stiles peels out of the forest, the scrape of the dirt roads stuttering into the normal graze of an asphalt street. The air freshener—now months old—bounces back and forth and Derek adds to the noise as he taps a fingernail against the window. No rhythm, just sound. It’s the beating of Stiles’ boisterous heart. It’s his breaths and his tongue beating the roof of his mouth as he chatters his teeth in the cold. He doesn’t turn on the heat, though. Nothing burns a Hale quite like the heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they reach that same diner from weeks ago, the one with the boy and the balloon, Stiles pockets his keys and closes his eyes. He forgets to breathe when he’s focused sometimes, as if the air thins whenever his mind thickens, and he waits until his chest lightens to look over at Derek. Into the wolf’s eyes. Who’s staring right back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>[There’s nothing quite like the gaze of a wolf. You can see mountains in it, the peaks and valleys of a world unseen. You can picture the trees the wolf has run between, the sun that peeks a golden glow just like headlights across the plains, the deep underbrush splashed by the rivers it borders. You can see rot, and decay, years worth of blood and brine splattered against burned bridges and burned walls and burned rooftops. And more than anything, you see pain. No one carries pain in their eyes quite like the wolf.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Derek asks, the word heavy on his lips. Stiles wonders: how often does Derek talk during the week? How many hours does he say nothing at all? How many days is there nothing but silence, and the murmur of a quiet so still that it can’t help but rumble.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles smirks, a twitch of his mouth so minuscule only Derek would ever notice it. “You hungry?” he asks. Maybe he gestures towards the front door of the restaurant, or maybe to the silver balloons fluttering in the wind; maybe he doesn’t gesture at all, and his tone has enough spark in it to fill an entire void. And it does, because nothing makes Derek’s chest feel more full than Stiles. Nothing makes him shiver quite like the boy’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at his hands, and then back up. In the half-seconds, Derek sees the beginning of nerves start to creep up along the boy’s spine. His heart stammers as if he’s finished a speech and the crowd has forgotten to applaud. His mouth parts, perhaps to retract the question, </span>
  <em>
    <span>forget I said anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t mind me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Derek smiles. “I could eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that’s how they end up sitting opposite each other in the most hidden booth of some whatever diner, in the most secluded corner, in the farthest edge of Beacon Hills. That’s how Stiles ends up with a plate of curly fries and a vanilla shake, and that’s how Derek ends up with a plate of hash browns (</span>
  <em>
    <span>extra crispy, if you don’t mind) </span>
  </em>
  <span>and a glass of Diet Root Beer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles dips a few fries into his shake, then swipes a few across the ketchup covering Derek’s now-forgotten scramble of soggy (and probs still delicious) potatoes. Derek doesn’t even grimace—he just sips mindlessly at his soda and stares out the window, watching a woman lean into her date and kiss her against a dirty truck. Maybe he huffs, or smirks, or raises his eyebrows. But then he’s watching a different man, several yards away, corral his should-be-tired-it’s-so-late kid into the back of a minivan. Life, it seems, is as awake as ever, even in the disparate midnight of a late autumn Friday. Even when life has seemed to falter, at least for him, it still goes on. Still rages, still looms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life keeps burning. Derek wonders how much ash it would take before the entire world is buried in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yo,” Stiles says, and Derek snaps out of a trance. He quirks a brow, signaling the younger man to continue. “Hear me out, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wolf’s throat tightens. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m wasting his time, aren’t I? </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I’m hearing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles exhales, picking at the edge of his plate where a few grains of salt have been piled up like a mountain. Agitated, of course, Stiles’ heart picks up. As if racing to the finish line, wishing he could skip the laps and forego asking the question in order to receive an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He meets Derek’s eyes. “So, you see how you only have half of your Root Beer left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not what the wolf was expecting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you see how I,” Stiles speaks clearly, diplomatically, a king in search of a land’s alliance, a god at the dawning of a new world’s treaty, staring down at the red-tinted glasses in front of them, “have only half of my milkshake left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek blinks. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe we can come to some sort of agreement?” Stiles chews at the end of his straw, teeth digging into the plastic but not sucking in to get a mouthful of vanilla. He looks hopeful. Wistful is as far as Derek would go. Okay, maybe longing</span>
  <em>
    <span>? Longing</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the farthest Derek would take Stiles’ expression to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck, Stiles looks like he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>[What would it take for Stiles to want Derek like that? What would it take for Derek to see that expression more than just once a week? Because that’s all this is, isn’t it? A weekly tirade, an endless round of pretend, a routine charade of nothing, of nothing,</span>
  <em>
    <span> of nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet still, the wolf wants, too.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek knows what the agreement Stiles mentioned would be, but the more that boy chews on the straw between his lips, the more the canine in him begins to roar. “Like what?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles rolls his eyes, but they land back on Derek. They always seem to be looking at each other lately. “Root Beer Float, baby. Your soda, my shake? My vanilla, your root? Your precious liquids and mine? Wait. No, not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s interrupted by Derek’s movements, the wolf grinning as he grabs both glasses and combines their contents. He takes his straw and puts it next to Stiles’, leaning in for a long sip and then proffering Stiles to do the same. He does, and Derek would rather punch another wall than to miss the way he licks his lips before diving in for the drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles mutters something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nice </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, hell yeah </span>
  </em>
  <span>as Derek leans into the palm of his hand and stares out the window again. The kid and the dad are long gone, and the girl sits alone in her truck, the light of her phone illuminating the darkness as she, likely, responds to a text from the girl she’d just been kissing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, the world keeps burning. It burns and it burns and it burns, but Derek isn’t covered in ash just yet. He looks back at Stiles, and when their gaze collides it’s with the redness of cheeks and mercury, the brown amber of eyes and venus, the white sheen of teeth and the moon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world burns. And Derek Hale is on fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On their way out, Derek unties a silver balloon and curls the string around Stiles’ wrist. Maybe they laugh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’ve laughed in a very long time. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe they smile. Maybe they grin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When was the last time I did this? When was the last time I was happy? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe they burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when was the last time either of them have ever felt more alive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’ jeep stalls one November Friday, the tires remaining still on the pavement of his driveway. His dad left a couple hours ago, promising the weekend to his son despite both realizing the emptiness of that wish, this hope, the envy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swears, hitting his head back on the seat and rubbing his eyes with his thumbs. Maybe he thinks his fingernails could wipe away the exhaustion. Maybe he thinks, when he opens his eyes again, the keys will twist and ignite the engine like nothing had ever happened. But that’s not the case. The jeep doesn’t start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of him worries, and part of him wonders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[The worry: Derek standing quietly in the forest, his knuckles so bruised and bloody he pulls his sleeves over them so he doesn’t stain Stiles’ seats. Stars count the minutes and the moon yells at him that </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s not coming. He doesn’t want to anymore. He’s done. You got your hopes up for nothing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Derek doesn’t have a watch or a phone or a way to tell the time, so he stares at the empty space where the jeep should be, and maybe he frowns, maybe he scowls, maybe he cries, because the sun is coming up and he’s all by himself. He’s alone, and it stings more than it ever has.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[The wonder: will Derek miss him?]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s nothing Stiles can do about it. Not now. There’re no 24-hour mechanics in the measly suburbs of Beacon Hills. He can’t borrow a friend’s car or ride his old bike or walk the many miles to where they meet. He’s all alone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is Stiles done with being alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pockets his keys. The metals clack against one another as they bounce in his jeans, the car door opening and shutting with an echo across the vacant street. Maybe a light flickers on in his neighbor’s house; maybe it’s been on all along, and the subtle hum of their living room television brings life to the shell that is a home he doesn’t live in. Maybe a mother laughs, somewhere. Maybe she cooks her husband’s favorite dinner because it’s their anniversary tonight. The kids are with her mom. The dog is asleep. There’s nothing else to do but stare at the one you love and think about forever. They could dance, and sing, and reminisce, and hold each other’s faces with the sweaty palms of their hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let’s kiss like we always do. Let’s live because we’re done dreaming. Let’s forget to cherish this night because there are so, so many. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles wonders if his parents had believed in forever. Because he doesn’t. Forever is impossible. People die. Mothers wilt. Families break before they even have the chance to make it to eternity. There’s a reason that all the legends and all the myths are about one hero, and that hero is not happy. Odysseus kills so many men. Achilles falls before the war is over. Alexander dies in agony. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Derek Hale has no one left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles goes back to his bedroom and falls asleep. His shoes are still on and he forgets to turn off the bathroom light after brushing his teeth. The walls creak and the springs of his bed wail when he sinks into the blankets, but doesn’t crawl beneath them. His window is wide open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes to the sunrise spilling orange and gold onto his floors, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next Friday, he doesn’t even reach for his keys. He wonders if Derek shows up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does, and the wolf whines before going home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s December when Scott tells Stiles that Derek has left. Not permanently, Scott insists, his confused look asking Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>Does it matter? </span>
  </em>
  <span>before changing the subject as the lunch hour drags on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what’s he doing?” Stiles asks a few moments later. The conversation has already moved on, so Scott takes a second before processing the question. Even Kira gives him a worried look, maybe picking up on the sudden sweat pooling on his hairline, Scott smelling the tension and hearing the erratic spew of a heart spitting its regret.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott shrugs. “Don’t know. He just said he was leaving and that he’d be back in January, or if we needed him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods. Eats his food. Watches Scott and Kira talk about nothing and everything as if every word is their last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, he grabs his keys and drives to that clearing. He turns the headlights off and pictures a silhouette lurking in the distance, his expression darkening at the realization that the jeep isn’t coming tonight. Stiles gets out of the car and walks over to the usual place Derek stands, looking at the dirt to find a pair of footprints almost covered in leaves. He wonders if Derek has ever come here on nights that weren’t Friday, maybe hopeful, maybe yearning, maybe thinking about spending more than a few hours with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles would like that, he admits. He’d like to be thought about. To be sought after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d like it if Derek wanted him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he thinks he might want Derek, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[At night, Stiles dreams. He shuts his eyes and lets his mind roam to lands unseen, untainted by grime and gore. Sometimes there’s music that flutters between his eyelids as they tremble, threatening to open up and silence everything, silence the wonder and silence the pain. Sometimes there’s love, and inside his dreamscape he can feel his heart beating so fast and so loudly that he can’t help but think his real life must be missing something—that he must be waiting until the day he’ll at last feel the thrum of a chest, the curve of a neck, the haunt of a kiss. Sometimes there’s magic, and wolves, and genies without their wishes. Sometimes there’s hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s always </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He dreams of him and Derek, walking along a road of a town he doesn’t know. He dreams of them atop skyscrapers in the skylines of cities he’ll never visit, places he’ll only ever dream of seeing. He dreams of them holding each other, fingertips curling together like the vines of a rainforest, like the twine of a thread and needle sewing something grand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dreams of the ocean, and living in its vastness. Of the mountains and their height, never once feeling afraid of falling. Of the coast, and the midwest, and the east, and every other country his mind can name and even some he can’t. Stiles dreams of them waking up in each other’s arms to the same sun every morning. Going to bed beneath the same moon. Sleeping together with just the gleam of the same old stars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dreams of life and nightmares. Children and their bone. Running in the wind, in the air, in the streets. Waltzing with their family, grinning madly at the way their feet shuffle on the pavement. Of a wedding, of a vacation someday down the line, of their first fuck and their last, always nervous and never afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dreams. And it hurts like a scar that never stops bleeding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His skin feels like wax when he awakes. As if, while sleeping, his body is nothing but a candle lit to its core, melting and waning and dissipating until its wick has been worn down. Finally, the embers disappear, and the fire goes out. He wakes to a shiver, and everything is cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day, he stops leaving his window open. He stops hoping to see him there. He gives up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But still, Stiles dreams.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>January comes, and the first Friday is only two days after the New Year. A small piece of Stiles feels humiliated by his excitement, angry with himself for feeling so ecstatic to see Derek again. He doesn’t know when it happened—when he started to look at the man and see forever. Like his dad once did with his mom. Like the gods once did with their earth, cradling it, torn between holding it and hiding it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips his keys into his pocket and sneaks out, forgetting to tie his left sneaker and ignoring the stain on the hem of his shirt. The darkness is good at hiding the imperfections; even if it wasn’t, he doesn’t think Derek would mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive is quiet. It’s still. His blood feels like it’s frozen over like a wintry lake, begging someone to skate atop its surface until plunged into the ice below. Adrenaline pours over him like magma becoming lava, and as he pulls into the clearing he doesn’t even try to hide the sweat and the stench of his fear. Maybe he wants Derek to know. Maybe he wants Derek to feel the same way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he believes, for the first time in his entire life, that one of his wishes might come true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts off the headlights, and then time ticks on. Each minute is more troublesome than the last, the numbers of the clock changing constantly as the hour comes to a close. Derek has never been late, and as he hears nothing but his own breath and his own heart, he can’t help but accept that he’s not coming. Stiles has fucked up so profoundly that he doesn’t know what to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants his mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dad wouldn’t understand the pain. He’s never responded well to when his son cries, so preoccupied by making him stop that he never tries to find the </span>
  <em>
    <span>why. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scott would roll his eyes and shoot his eyebrows to the sky in protest, finding Kira to back him up in telling Stiles that </span>
  <em>
    <span>there’s no way you like Derek. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother would hold him. She’d tell him </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything is going to be okay. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stiles wouldn’t believe her, but he’d stop crying anyways, endowed in warmth and something undefined. Something only given to you by a mother. Something calm, something lovely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts the car to go home, blaming himself for pushing away the one person that hasn’t been loved in so many years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he backs away, the silhouette appears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You came back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So did you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I missed you,” Stiles whispers in the last hour of the night, frightened by the volume of his own voice, afraid that if he speaks too loudly then the film around them will rip into shreds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek tenses, the breadth of his shoulders closing in as if flinching away from Stiles’ words. Maybe he shuts his eyes tightly, or wipes a hand across his mouth in anticipation of what he wants to say. What he’s always wanted to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the sentence dies before he can let it go. Instead, he turns to face this man he knows, and with the weakness of a dying star, he asks </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’ eyes widen in shock from the question, mouth hanging open in that Stiles way that Derek can’t help but notice every time. Staring at lips, watching the tongue. “Dude, really?” Stiles asks back. Annoyance fills his tone, but fear fills his scent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause, then. Derek has no answer. He’s never had any answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair and grimacing as his palm comes away greasy. He thinks and he thinks and he doesn’t look Derek in the eye anymore, gripping the steering wheel and fidgeting in his seat and </span>
  <em>
    <span>What do I say? Can I tell him the truth?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The little boy in him dares to challenge the wolf. “I just like you a lot, okay?” His mouth quirks as if halfway to both frown and smile, remaining a thin, flat line. When Derek doesn’t seem satisfied, he continues, “You’ve just been there for me, alright? You don’t ask why I smell like fucking tears all the time and we just sit and do nothing and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>God, there’s just something about you that’s…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops, and there’s a tension in the air that neither of them have ever felt before. Not with the Sheriff, never with Laura, not with Scott or Cora or Peter or anyone else they’ve ever known. This moment is </span>
  <em>
    <span>them, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a fabric of Derek and Stiles so unbreakable, so apparent, so dangerous. Derek stops feeling the moon. Stiles stops feeling the hunger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their gaze lands together, and it’s as if they’ve been looking at each other for a thousand years, and like they’ve never seen each other at all. “There’s something about you that’s...that’s...” Stiles stammers, seeing the colors in Derek’s expression more clearly, and seeing a vulnerability he didn’t know wolves were capable of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Safe,” Derek finishes. “There’s something about this—</span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>—that’s safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles exhales. The heat of his breath fills the car. “Yeah. Safe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t look away for what feels like days and nights. Maybe it has been. Maybe Stiles and Derek have always been a whirlwind of day and night, circling each other and never letting themselves exist at the same time. The lunar moon and the golden sun, both alone, both waiting to find each other in the skies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles grabs Derek’s hand, resting on the center console. The man smiles, and the wolf begins to understand what it means to be okay. What it means to look forward to tomorrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, and it doesn’t matter which of the two that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>is, because the sound is better than anything they’ve ever heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles takes Derek to the sand. He’s anxious about it, a maze of emotions passing through him as he drives hours away from Beacon Hills. As they leave the city limits behind, Stiles starts to wonder about Derek’s silence. Starts to wonder if Derek trusts him. He’d like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not until the scent of salt becomes overwhelming, and the sound of ocean waves crashing to the shore replaces the clutter of cicadas and crickets along the coast. It’s all seafoam and a late winter mist; it’s the smell of anticipation, of rolled up jeans, of a faint glow of stars on the sea. Stiles parks the jeep with a breath, staring out the windshield and waiting for Derek to refuse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take me home, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he imagines the wolf barking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to be here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t want to be here with you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But Derek does something the man doesn’t expect—he smiles. He smiles widely, madly, an eon of grief suddenly fading as he stares out the glass and at the water. He’s grinning like his teeth won’t fit back into his mouth, grinning like he’d given up on happiness long ago, and grinning like joy was something from his past. A piece of history. Nothing but an ache, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles can’t help but feel his heart rage. Quickly, he grabs towels from the back and steps out of the car, casting glances at Derek as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>You better be coming, Sourwolf. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Derek raises an eyebrow, maybe in mock protest, maybe shivering from just the thought of the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No—Stiles, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes. We’re goin’ in, big guy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Derek’s already taking off his shoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first touch of the water against his toes has Stiles jumping back. His foot immediately numbs and he lets out a shriek to rival the beasts of war, pedaling his legs away, wrapping his bare torso in arms covered in goosebumps. Derek laughs at him—Derek </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him—and he shoots a glare so wicked he can’t resist laughing too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>[The wolf can’t think. He can’t breathe. That laugh is like poison, like a fever, like a cloud of steam and ash and smoke. That laugh is everything he didn’t want to hear. That laugh is everything he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to hear. It’s honey and suckle, wine and lavender. Wool and cotton. Love and loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of the dinner table and the weekends when they’d get dessert; he thinks of basketball games and summer and road trips when it was his turn to sit in the middle. He remembers his mother in that laugh, when he’d say something so dumb and so immature and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>Derek </span>
  </em>
  <span>that she’d laugh before realizing she’d opened her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are so few people that laugh with their entire body. Talia was one of those people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles is one of those people too.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on!</span>
  </em>
  <span> If I’m going in, you have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s still fully clothed, watching a half-naked Stiles squeal and squirm away from the waves in wait. “No,” he said. “I’d rather not die from hypothermia.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bro, a rusty pole went through your abs and you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Live a little!” Stiles’ hands wave and flap like seagulls and fish, his appearance so flustered by the water he’s started to seem familiar to it. As if nothing in the world can touch him right now. Pain is a million worlds away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I live a lot. Every day, actually.” Derek scowls, but his fingers go to grab the hem of his shirt and he pulls it off in a swift motion. Moonlight casts over him like the stones of a garden, half in darkness, half in the hue of a brilliant white. He forgets to mention the war going on in Stiles’ heart. He forgets to mention his scent of fear and shame but giddiness and exhilaration. [He forgets to mention the arousal, and that maybe he feels it too.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles cheers. “Get naked and get wet, dude,” he says. And then he stiffens, and Derek pauses with his jeans around his knees, head down and face heating up wildly. “‘Kay, we both know that’s not what I meant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wolf finishes undressing, and looks up to see Stiles facing him, back to the ocean, so silent and so still it’s like he was born among the ice. Derek throws his pants aside, then laughs so hard he starts to hear his mother in the sound. Stiles tells him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shut up </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck off, dude </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he walks backwards towards the breaking waves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek laughs and he laughs and he laughs all the way to the ocean, where all he smells is the saltwater and the seaweed swimming through it. His eyes fill with tears and he covers his face with his hands and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s filled with an elation so godlike he wonders if he’s just been woken up. Woken up years after falling asleep. Woken up like he’s been born all over again—still on an earth full of hurt, of fire and ash, but an earth that hasn’t claimed him yet. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs. I don’t know if I’ll ever laugh again. But right now. Right here. I think this is who I was meant to be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks up again, the sky so grey and blue it feels like a dream, Stiles is watching him. Stiles is always watching him, maybe waiting for Derek to make him leave, maybe waiting for them to fall apart and to scream and forget each other, or maybe waiting for something else entirely. Something Derek can’t feel quite yet; something Derek has felt all along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, a wave breaks the silence, and hits Stiles so forcefully in that bend of his knees that he’s sent flying forward. Derek catches him, a hand to each shoulder, and together they feel what it’s like to be touched for the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, they stand in the street and wipe sand from between their toes. They lay down towels over the seats and sit for an hour before Stiles starts driving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek talks about the laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he tells Stiles about Talia, Stiles listens. When Stiles tells him about Claudia, Derek listens, and nothing is sweeter than the sound of them remembering those they’ve lost, those they’ve found, and those that’ll always be with them. Well, maybe the sound of Stiles’ laughter </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a little sweeter, Derek admits, as the wolf watches the man and sees what it’s like to be human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dreams of his family that night. And not once does he smell smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>* </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, Stiles will wake up and remember a time when the sun hurt him. He’ll think about the nightmares and the moments he’d wanted nothing more than to be forgotten. To disappear. To have never existed. He’ll lay awake in bed for an hour, maybe two, and gather just enough courage to sit up. Turn on the lights. Wince, and remember to breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll stare at the wall, then stare at the door. He’ll listen for footsteps or a car alarm or a faucet down the hall. Maybe his dad will knock and murmur the softest </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good morning </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>See you tonight. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe he won’t hear his dad at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe the house is empty. He always is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll stand, eventually, and forget about crying. The boy will shower and dress and eat because he has to, because he needs to, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. His fists will ball up whenever he thinks too much, and his mouth will hang open when he thinks too little. There is no middle ground—to Stiles, his head will always be at war. Raging. Void. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loud. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles will do nothing, then. He’ll think about leaving, or running, or dying. He’ll picture a world where people are forgotten when they’re gone. Wiped from memory. Erased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because the saddest part about dying is not death. It’s leaving everyone else behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, Derek will remember a time when the sun was not his friend. He’ll think about the moonlight and how he’d always connected dawn to </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain, </span>
  </em>
  <span>mornings to </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffering, </span>
  </em>
  <span>daylight to </span>
  <em>
    <span>loss. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Waking up means everything is still the same. Opening your eyes means you accept that the world has not changed, and you have yet to heal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The morning after his house had burned, he’d forgotten that he’d wished to die, too. He’d laid in bed with Laura [and his sister’s breathing had been so quiet, so soft, so broken, that Derek almost thought she’d died in her sleep, succumbing to a shattered heart, leaving him behind to be alone, all alone] and when she’d finally woken up he’d seen the realization pour over her face in seconds. But before that, she’d been calm. They’d cried together, and maybe they’d forgotten to open the curtains and maybe they didn’t see the sun for days. </span>
</p><p><span>The sun means </span><em><span>today </span></em><span>has come. And </span><em><span>today </span></em><span>just means that the pain is still here, will always be here, was</span> <span>here all along. </span><em><span>Today </span></em><span>means remembering he hasn’t moved on. </span><em><span>Today </span></em><span>means that </span><em><span>last night </span></em><span>really did happen. </span></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And last night, there was fire. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But tomorrow, still fresh from the sand and covered in the scent of ocean, of the sea, Derek will wake up and the sun won’t burn. It’ll be bright, and early, and so eerily serene among a forest of birds, butterflies, and bees. There’ll be dew from rain, moss on the rocks, flowers in their bloom as if defying the mud they peek through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’ll be a different kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>today. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because last night, there was laughter. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a single moment, they crash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s February when Stiles has come to the conclusion that he and Derek are friends. Maybe more than that. Maybe even less. On a Friday, he takes them to an empty parking lot and they wade in the silence, never afraid of breaking it, only hushed by its touch. That’s another thing so brilliant about Derek and Stiles—even when together, they can still feel alone, and even when alone, they can still feel together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn’t mention that Derek’s hands aren’t bloody when he gets in the car, and Derek doesn’t mention that Stiles is smiling, humming, beaming. The sun hasn’t hurt them in many weeks. The moon hasn’t had to save them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna ask you something,” Stiles says, perhaps so suddenly that the entire parking lot seems to shudder at once. Derek arises from his thoughts, his slumber, and looks at the boy by the wheel. It’s such a familiar sight that he wonders if Stiles feels different when he’s driving alone. As if something is missing. A piece of him gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe it only feels different when Derek </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>here. And instead of feeling whole, Stiles feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>more than. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Derek adds. He doesn’t complete. Derek grunts something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go ahead </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he watches as Stiles shifts in his seat to look at him. There is no wolf, and there is no man. It’s just Stiles. It’s just Derek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>[And maybe, it’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>them.]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to see each other more?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t elaborate even though he yearns to. He lets the question soar and then sink into their skin, leaving his tongue dry and wet at the same time, covered in the unspoken, yet arid from what’s already been given away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than Fridays. More than nights. More than…” And what is it that Stiles is asking? For Derek’s time? For his patience, his determination, his loyalty? For the things that Stiles doesn’t have, or doesn’t need, or needs so badly he clings onto those parts of the wolf with paling hands? For hope? For a dream he hasn’t really thought of yet, or a dream he’s had every night for a year? More than Fridays. More than nights. More than </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek thinks. It’s a mute, private moment to himself that tears him apart, and when he blinks he starts to see the stars through glossy eyes. He rips, and shreds, and crumbles like the pillars of an ancient city, quivers like the ground is moving beneath him, lets a tear stream down his face like the current of a waveless sea. All he can say, and all he can ask: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles doesn’t think he answers in time. He stumbles over words, a tripwire cutting each sound into a nothing. “Because,” he says, “I—because we—</span>
  <em>
    <span>you...</span>
  </em>
  <span>because it’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe the man doesn’t have a reason. He’s not asking for time, or loyalty, or hopes and dreams. He doesn’t ask for love. Not spite, not grief. He asks because he wants to, but maybe that’s not enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe the wolf needs more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think we should.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>[The wolf is begging for it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging </span>
  </em>
  <span>for more than this. For touch, and leisure, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He wants the comfort and the sharing and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>desire so strong he can’t breathe it’s too much he</span>
  </em>
  <span>—]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the wolf can’t have it. He hasn’t learned to take and not give. He hasn’t learned how to walk without hurting, or run for just the wind. He hasn’t learned to howl. Derek Hale hasn’t learned anything, and maybe he’ll never learn how to love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>no, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he sniffs a tension in the air he didn’t think the jeep would ever carry. It smells like the kind of worry meant for those parting ways; it’s the stench of goodbye, of farewell, of a memory so vivid it stays in the back of your head for weeks. It smells like regret and loneliness, and the fear that they’ve always been nothing, that they’ve been going nowhere, and that they’re no one. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>More than Fridays. More than nights. More than friends. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>More than </span>
  </em>
  <span>this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek gets out of the car, and forgets to hear Stiles calling after him, panicked and like he’s losing another one of his limbs once again. The man becomes a boy, quiet in the chair beside a hospital bed, and the wolf becomes a pup still covered in ash. He walks away, and doesn’t turn around as the headlights vanish in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, the sun hurts like they’ve been bleeding since the dawn of time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[Hey, did you hear me calling after you? I don’t think you did. That’s okay, that’s...fine. It might be what I expected, really, to see you disappear into the dark again. After all this time, you’re still such a stranger to me. Still a ghost. What haunts you? What’s keeping you here?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Aren’t you tired of running? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you remember what it was like to still be with her? You told me about how fast you’d run when she was with you, and how slow you’d go when alone. I don’t remember everything, but...you told me about the wind, and the sweat. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You said that the wind carried you away to another life when she was right beside you. You said your footsteps and hers were like a fury, a hurricane, a beast so much louder than the buzzing in your ears and the sun in your eyes. You said the wind was a song. You said it was everything. You said it made you a better son. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But the sweat buried you when you were alone, and you didn’t feel like running at all when she wasn’t there with you. The sweat hurt, and it stung as it licked your wounds. You had so many scars from falling. Maybe on purpose. Maybe to feel anything. Maybe because you were so tired of standing and there was nobody left to hold you. To keep you upright. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think I know what you mean now. When I was with her—my mom—the wind was that breeze through the flowers beside us, whispering to the grass about how happy we were to be together. How happy I was to be with her. To be young, unbroken, so loved. The wind was our words, and giving them to each other if only because we’d already given everything else. The wind kept us afloat. I’d do anything to feel that again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And the sweat...it covers you. When you cough, and heave, and shiver. When you cry, and shake. Vomit, even when there’s nothing left. I think that’s what I remember the most about her. She was covered in sweat when she died. So tired from fighting. So tired of running away from the end. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Aren’t we tired of running? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am tired, Derek. So, so tired.]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a while. A couple of weeks. Days pass in an uncomfortable blur and the nights go by with a numbness. By the middle of March, and the last day of winter, Stiles has all but mourned the death of the wolf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, he grabs his keys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles knows Derek won’t be there. He doesn’t drive to the clearing. It’s not even Friday, and he laughs when he realizes how unimportant that is. To confine a love to a single night. To give someone just a couple of hours, and think that’s all they need. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His headlights shine over the Hale house in a yellow haze, as if an echo of what was once a blazing orange. An alpha red. They illuminate the windows and the door and the towering walls, all so broken. He shuts the lights off, and he wonders if that’s the last time he’ll ever see more than shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears it, then. The sound of destruction. It reminds him of Odysseus and Achilles and Alexander as they’d marched away from their last loss. It reminds him of the silver string on a golden balloon, of safety, and the sound of a car’s ignition roaring to life. It reminds of water, and sand, and laughter, and coming back just to see if they did too. It reminds Stiles of wind and sweat. It reminds him of fire, even if that’s not his memory to keep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek throws his fist into the wall, and the sound of wood and knuckles splintering is enough to have Stiles barreling through the front door and up the stairs. It’s enough to have him standing there, staring, watching the wolf break himself into pieces. Stiles wonders how long it’s taken for Derek to drift off, and disintegrate. He wonders how long it’s taken for him to become sand, and become ash. How long it’s taken for Derek to become nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t speak. Stiles runs forward, forgetting to think about how the floorboards could cave at any second, forgetting to think about Derek’s claws, and his fangs, and his anger. He wraps both arms around the wolf and listens to him breathe like his lungs are full of sweat. Derek doesn’t flinch—he stands there and remembers this warmth, this feeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stay like that, entangled in arms until the silence comes back. Derek loses the shift, and his hands are shaking so violently that the pain is no longer there. He feels numb like the night. Until he turns to face Stiles, and they cry together, smelling smoke, so overcome because it’s the first goodbye that’s ended in </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here, I’m back, I had to see you again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>[His mother never got to say goodbye.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they pull apart, they’ve fallen to the floor, and Derek looks so fragile that Stiles is afraid even the wind might carry him away. They wait until they can see each other again, but still they can’t speak, and Stiles pulls Derek away from the wreckage and takes the wolf outside. The bite of the chill air gnaws at his bleeding hands, and the pain reminds him of the distant past. Of his first full moon alone, covered in so many scars he’d been a mosaic of red and black. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles sets Derek in the passenger seat, forgetting to hear the wolf’s cries of </span>
  <em>
    <span>You shouldn’t be here </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Leave me alone </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why do you always come back for me? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He grabs bandages from the glove compartment, a rag from the floor of his backseat, a lukewarm bottle of water becoming cold in the forest air. Maybe he’d left all of these things in the car for this exact reason. Maybe he’d seen Derek’s hands every Friday for months and thought about this—about cuts, and bruises, and healing. Of an ache that never leaves, even when there’s no mark left behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands by the open door, and grabs Derek’s hands in his. The wolf hisses—not from the pain, but from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and Stiles wets the cloth and starts wiping away the blood. It’s slow, and so gentle, and they both know he’s cleaning more than just crimson, washing more than just a wound, healing more than just a hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Derek doesn’t want it anymore. It reminds him too much of a scraped knee from elementary school, a bloody nose when he was young, a papercut as he worked on homework he didn’t understand. It reminds him too much of his father helping him up from where he’d fallen, his mother tilting his head back and placing a towel to his face, a sister blowing on his fingertips as if willing the pain away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too much. Derek shoves Stiles away, the water bottle and rag dropping to the ground as the man stumbles back, wearing an expression so wary and fearful that Derek nearly breaks all over again. He fumes. He growls, and he doesn’t think he’s screaming until he is. “Get away from me,” he shouts, “Get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>away from me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Stiles doesn’t move. He doesn’t run. The man will never run away again. He steps into Derek’s space and reaches for his arms, softly leading the wolf back into the seat, forgetting to mention the fire that burns each time he sees Derek’s eyes. So mournful, and filled with a grief that’s more than loss. It’s guilt. It’s agony. It’s despair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks up the rag, wipes away the branches, and cleans the last few streaks of blood on Derek’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ll heal,” Derek murmurs, so soft it’s impossible to compare it to the scream from moments ago. He is at once concrete and glass, so sturdy until cracked just once. He’s a man both loud and quiet, with both a roar and a whisper. A wolf with a howl only Stiles has heard before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The wounds will,” Stiles says. He starts wrapping bandages around Derek’s hands. The cuts have already closed. “But the pain won’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek nods, and the promises that go unspoken are almost enough to throw them into each other’s arms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>These bandages aren’t for your hands. I swear I won’t take them off until I stop hurting myself. I hate seeing you like this. I’m broken...so broken out here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles starts the car, and they drive away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[One day, Derek tells Stiles about the fire, and how his father was found with broken hands. He tells Stiles about everything—about how he can still hear his mother screaming for help, about his brother’s heartbeat fading the fastest, and about the sound of his father’s fist colliding with the walls. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He tried punching a hole so wide they could climb through it. He tried saving everyone. He died before his hands could heal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, Stiles will still find Derek with bloody knuckles. The wolf never tries to hide it; he sits on the countertop, or the edge of the bath, or at the dining room table, and waits for Stiles to grab bandages, a rag, and a water bottle. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I...I can’t stop myself from doing it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles will put his forehead against Derek’s, and they’ll listen to the sound of each other’s breaths, exhales so heavy they’re hot. He won’t let go until Derek promises all over again that he’ll try better next time. That he’ll talk about it. That he’ll remember the wind, and not the sweat. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I just think about hurting…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Derek will talk about other things his father did. His favorite dinner. The way he drove. How he always said goodnight to Derek last because Derek was the only one who had nightmares, even before everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And then</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>then I need to hurt.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ll kiss, and every time it reminds them that the sun is right there. It can’t hurt them. Not anymore.]</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most weeks, they do nothing on Friday. Some, it’s the only night they can get away. They grow older, maybe in love, forever infatuated by the years spent remembering the touch, the howl, the water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have everything now. Derek gives Stiles more than Fridays, and Stiles gives Derek more than nights. They’re much more than this, more than friends, and they’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to run from something behind you. Maybe they’re still in pain, certainly they’re always nervous, but they are never afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles never mentions the holes in the wall. Derek never mentions the scent of tears on the sheets, on the towels, on the clothes. They don’t have to. Stiles and Derek don’t talk about the sweat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talk about the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>[Every night, Derek waits until headlights flash through the windows, and he laughs.]</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>never written a fanfic before but god am I obsessed with these men. hope this wasn't too sad LMAO</p></blockquote></div></div>
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